


a scar that looks just like you

by soapboxblues



Series: broken lovers series [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Original Character(s), R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapboxblues/pseuds/soapboxblues
Summary: This is not the beginning of Jon’s story. But Jon at twenty-four has lost more than he ever imagined he could at the true beginning – fifteen and standing at the edge of the world(or five things Jon lost that shaped his life and one loss he regained that defined it)





	a scar that looks just like you

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third and final part of the broken lover series. Apologies for the wait! I hope it's worth it though. For those of you who haven't read the first two fics, I would advise you read those first if you want to make sense of all the original characters running around. This was intended to be a jon/dany fic, but if I'm being honest, the main pairing in this is jon/angst. 
> 
> Also, a large thank you to everyone who read the first and second fics of this series and took the time to leave a comment or give a kudos. Your encouragement was what pushed me to write a third piece. 
> 
> Title taken from vampire smile by kyla la grange.
> 
> Enjoy :)

i. innocence - the execution of gared

“Careful.” Ser Arthur Dayne places his hand against Jon’s chest to keep him from teetering too close to the edge of the Wall.

Jon cannot help the huff that makes its way past his lips – a puff of steam in the cold air before them. “I’m not a boy.”

“No, but you are a prince and I’m charged with your protection,” Arthur counters which causes Jon to raise an eyebrow.  Arthur smiles as if he was just waiting for Jon to take the bait. “You’ve never known a line you didn’t not want to cross. And this wall is a giant line.”

Jon takes a step backwards, resisting rolling his eyes because he knows it would just add to Arthur’s point of him being childish.

It is just the two of them on this partition. The sole member of the Night’s Watch in charge of taking them up here is lingering close to the elevator. Jon has determined two things about this man – he is new to the Watch, and he is definitely a southerner. His blood runs too warm for the thin air here and so he shivers often without warning, much like Arthur does. Jon, on the other hand, has always been cold blooded. His body has twitched once or twice when a sharp breeze has ripped through, but it is nothing he cannot bear in exchange to being privy to this sight.

There are signs of winter’s approach as far as he can see. The shapes of trees are hidden in the gray haze of the endless light snow. The only contrast to be found is in the dark shadow the wall casts. Otherwise, it is a blank white canvas in both sight and sound. This far up and the boons of laughter, angry mutterings and grunts of hard labor have all been muted. There is just snow and silence and peace.

Jon has never felt more at home.

“I could stay here,” Jon says soft enough that it could be just another wind whipping around them.

“I don’t doubt you could,” Arthur says, just as softly.  “Maybe in another life you would have.”

Jon steps closer again, so he can clutch at the wall. This time Arthur does not stop him. Jon watches his black glove disappear beneath the thick layer of snow there.  

 _Maybe,_ he thinks.

\---

They are on their way back from the wall when they encounter a few of his uncle Ned’s men holding a man dressed in black, who is out of his mind, frightened and distraught. They recognize him immediately as one of the party that the Lord Commander had told them about – feared either dead or deserted.

Ser Arthur attempts to question this man, tries to discern where the other two from his party were, but there is nothing to come from it. The man refuses to return to the Wall. He’s half mad and furious at even the suggestion of turning back north.

“We should send word to your uncle,” Arthur says finally when he realizes they are getting nowhere.

“And what? Stay here until he arrives?” Jon reasons, “There’s no point. He’s admitted his guilt, and it will take Ned at least a day to get the message and another half to get here.”

“You know the penalty for deserters,” Arthur says.

“I do,” Jon says firmly. He turns back to the man, who is already on his knees muttering into the snow covered grass before him.  Jon snaps his fingers before the man’s face in the hopes of getting his attention. It flickers towards him but only barely. Jon can see he is still somewhere else entirely.

“I, Prince Jon of House Targaryen, sentence you to death,” Jon says. No sooner than the words are out of his mouth does Arthur move to unsheathe his blade. Jon wraps his hand firmly around the knight’s wrist. “No. The man who passes the sentence should carry out the deed. That’s how they do it here.”

Ser Arthur looks as though he wants to argue, but instead he places his hand on the man’s back as if to still him. Jon cannot decide if it is cruel to kill a man who is so far from his own mind or kind to be putting it out of his misery.

Nothing prepares him for that moment that he swings his sword. It is not a clean cut though it leaves the man dead. Blood covers his arms and his knees.  Arthur takes out his sword then and Jon knows why. This man’s head must be sent back to the Wall as proof that the matter has been handled, and Jon lacks the physical strength to finish that job.

Emotionally he is not much better though he stays rooted to his place as Arthur buries what’s left of the man and hides away his head in one of his satchels. Arthur gives him a nod when it is done – hands the head over to the arresting party so they can bring it to the Wall. They part ways with the men, and Jon only makes it a few yards before he feels overwhelmed.

“I need a moment,” he says without meeting Arthur’s eyes. He breaks from the road into the tree line beside them. He stumbles as soon as he is out of Arthur’s sight, body finally caving under the gravity of what he had just done. He braces his hand against the nearest tree, presses his forehead there and begs the old gods to give him strength, to forgive him.

 He takes a deep breath and then heads back towards the road where Ser Arthur waits.

A few more steps and he nearly trips again. This time over the body of a giant wolf.

\---

Jon does not comment on the fact that Arthur had packed a basket, though he sincerely wishes he knew what it was intended for. The Kingsguard, Jon has realized, are prepared for just about anything, but Jon doubts that “a litter of direwolves” is something they train for.

Ned allows his children to keep the wolves so long as they take care of them on their own. There is one for each of them, not including the one that Jon has decided to keep. The children quickly claim the remaining wolves and run off to show them to their mother. Jon is pretty sure this will only serve to make Catelyn hate him more.

 “I hear you met a deserter on your way back,” Ned says.

Jon looks around to chastise Arthur for having said anything, but he discovers that Arthur has slipped off when he wasn’t looking. He is not surprised. He does not tend to linger around Ned, the man who fathered his sister’s bastard daughter. It’s a miracle Arthur even stomached him long enough to pass along that word, but then Arthur worries about Jon almost as much as Ned does.

 “I would have taken care of him if you sent word,” Ned adds.

“It’s the king’s justice that’s being pronounced,” Jon says mildly, “Why should his son not carry out such a thing?”

“You are right,” Ned admits, but Jon can tell he is just placating him.

“You coddle me,” Jon says, and when it looks like Ned is going to protest, he decides to change the subject. “Something good came out of the excursion, at least.”

He is gesturing to the pup in his own arms. Bright white with eyes as red as the blood that has stained Jon’s cuffs and knees.

“You had your choice of any of them and you chose this one.” Ned does not seem to be mocking him, only curious.  

“He looks like a Targaryen,” Jon notes, “Except for the eyes, obviously, but I don’t think direwolves come with purple eyes.”

Ned nods, but he is still looking at him with concern and Jon knows it has nothing to do with the wolves.  

“Stop,” Jon says, not as harsh as he would have liked, “It had to happen eventually. No man in this world goes his whole life without finding blood on his hands.”

Ned reaches out to scratch the pup behind the ear. “It is too early in your life to have done such a thing.”

Jon breaths deep. His voice is barely a whisper. “I could not be a boy forever.”

 

ii. a brother - the disinheritance of aegon targaryen

"Steady," Jon murmurs. He and Griffin are crouched fifteen yards from a boar caught in the crosshairs of Griffin's bow. They are on a hunt south of Harrenhal, in the forest around the Gods Eye. Arthur is ten paces behind Jon, as always, blending into the scenery. Lord Connington is at Arthur’s right having already bagged two birds. Jon, for his part, has already taken down a stag. Unfortunately, Griffin for all his skill with a bow cannot hunt to save his life.

Griffin takes a deep breath and on the exhale his arrow sails past the boar, grazing its ear. The animal takes off running and Griffin lets out a curse loud enough to scare off any prey within ten miles. He stalks away to "collect himself" as soon as he catches his father trying to hide his laugh behind Ser Dayne's shoulder.

The hunt was Rhaegar's idea. Jon was never fond of hunting, but it's as good a way as any to keep him out of King's Landing while Rhaegar deals with the fallout of Aegon's abandonment. Jon can't help wonder if he is being penalized for his brother's actions, but then a part of him feels as though he would deserve it if he was. He had known deep down that his brothers' eyes lingered too long on Cydra and Cydra's smile was always a touch sweeter when it was directed at Aegon. He never had imagined there was anything more behind it then an innocent crush - the sweet lull of the unattainable. Unfortunately, his silence had led to his brother's disappearance.

"It is not punishment."

Jon flinches. He didn't realize Lord Connington had snuck up on him nor does he understand how the man manages to read his thoughts so well. "How do you do that?"

Lord Connington smiles sadly. "You are your father's son. And you both make the same face when you are toying with the notion that you are somehow a disappointment. You, Jon, wear it far too often."

Jon feels stiff and awkward whenever the Hand of the King levels that kind of assessment his way. "Why do you think we're out there then?"

Lord Connington has an answer for everything and this is no exception. "Your father wanted you to deal with this on your own terms - far away from the prying eyes of court."

Jon huffs. "Is that why you are here? To cope without the prying eyes of court."

He regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. Lord Connington, for his part, takes them in stride, barely flinching at the reality.

"The bastard that was raised in my house seduced the crowned prince into abandoning his duties and fleeing to Essos," he says, arms crossed defiantly. "I believe I'm the one here for punishment."

Jon can think of nothing to say to ease that pain, but he is saved the trouble when two Targaryen knights make their way through a clearing. Ser Dayne immediately meets them, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword which makes Lord Connington and Jon move towards their own. Jon wonders what kind of trouble could possible meet them here, but he guesses two knights out of breath stumbling through the forest is always cause for concern.

Arthur's hand moves away from his weapon though the conversation still seems heated. Jon and Lord Connington watch in silence, even as Griffin returns from his walkabout.

"They came from King's Landing with news from the king," Griffin says, nodding at the men. "I didn't hear any details."

"Arthur will let us know soon enough," Lord Connington says though it seems as if his body leans forward itching to move towards the men. A few minutes later Arthur breaks away from the men to rejoin the three of them. He looks grave as he approaches them.

"Did they find Aegon?" Jon asks as soon as he is within earshot.

"No," Arthur says with a firm shake of his head, "Your father has disinherited him."

Jon feels the bottom of his stomach drop. No one says anything.

There’s not much that can be said.

\---

They leave at first light and return to King's Landing just as the sun begins to set the next day. He suspects Arthur timed it this way so they would not have to face any court members who were guaranteed to be lingering around the Red Keep. Jon is grateful for this. Lord Connington and Griffin head immediately toward the Tower of the Hand, while Arthur finds his way to his own chambers after Jon's repeated assurances that he needs nothing else from the man. Jon's feet long to carry him to his bedroom, but instead he makes a quick detour past the royal sept.

He expects to see Elia there. When he left for his trip, Aegon had been gone a week and Elia hadn't spent more than a few hours away from the altars. And he is right - Elia is there, kneeling before the altar of the mother, but she is not alone. Rhaenys' eyes snap to Jon's as soon as she hears him step into the room and then she is up and running towards him, throwing her arms around him.

"I'm glad you're back." It's muffled into the cuff of his coat.

"I'm glad you're still here," Jon says, "I thought you and Robb might have headed North before I got back."

Rhaenys pulls back from their embrace and lightly shoves his shoulder. "Of course not. Unlike some siblings, I know how to say goodbye."

"Rhaenys," Elia chides, but it sounds too tired to be much of an admonishment. There's a flash of guilt in Rhaenys' eyes but it's not enough to color the defiance there. The rest of their family had clung to their sadness over Aegon's departure while Rhaenys had held onto her anger. 

Elia steps forward, past her daughter so that she is toe to toe with Jon. Elia manages a small smile for him as she reaches up to tuck one of his curls behind his ear just like she did when he was a boy. Jon knows it's meant to comfort him, and it does just that.

Rhaenys stares over the top of his head. "I imagine you heard."

"I did," Jon says, "Father sent a couple men to our camp so we wouldn't be caught off guard."

Rhaenys glances at him and then away again.

"It had to be done," she says firmly, and Jon is reminded of when he or Aegon misbehaved as children and were reprimanded by their father. When they'd cry to Rhaenys, she would always take their father' side, always remind them that he knew what was best. In her eyes, he could do no wrong.

Elia's eyes have gone wide. She looks as if she is either going to burst into tears or start yelling at Rhaenys for being so cold. Neither option is one Jon can handle so he grabs both his sister and Elia's hand in one of his own and squeezes.

"I think we all know that, Rhae," he says, "But that doesn't make it any easier to bare."

Elia squeezes back, grateful that he understands and even Rhaenys for all her fire lets out an unsteady breath as though the misery of the situation isn't fully lost on her. They stand there in silence for a moment, holding onto each other in a little circle while the candles around each of altar flicker around them. Then Elia begins her prayer to the Mother, begging her to keep her children, near and far, safe from whatever comes next, and despite not worshiping the Seven, Jon finds himself hoping it reaches whatever gods are listening.

When she finishes, Elia looks up and for the first time since he came back, she speaks to him directly.

"Your father is waiting for you in his study."

This time it is Rhaenys who squeezes his hand.

\---

There is a courtyard underneath his father’s study that Jon spent most of his youth playing in. The view is better inside the study, but as he waits for his father to answer his knock to the door, he can't help peering out over the area from the hall window. The yard has not changed much since he was a child. He can still see the notches in the wall from where Griffin, a novice but spirited jouster, consistently missed his stationary target and the patch of shade beneath a peach tree where Cydra used to sit crossed legs, head on Jon’s shoulder so she could correct his spelling as he wrote letters to Daenerys.

He can hear Aegon’s laugh, soft and sure, whenever he was besting Jon at sword-play. Sometimes, their father would peak his head out from his study and tell Aegon to stop teasing his brother. It would only make Aegon laugh harder and Jon more determined to win – which he almost always did eventually. Aegon was lightening quick and accurate with his hits, but he lacked endurance. Jon's speed and strength were no better than the next fighter, but his edge came from his ability to absorb every blow landed on him and turn it back on his opponent in due time. Aegon's belief was that the only way to beat his brother was to find a way inside his head.

"I don't think I ever saw you lose a fight with your brother out there," Rhaegar says and when Jon turns to meet his father he is not surprised to find him right behind him - glancing over Jon's shoulder towards the scene below. His father can move almost as silently as the little birds Varys employs. 

"I was just thinking about that," Jon admits as Rhaegar ushers him inside and away from the window. Jon is immediately greeted by Ghost who circles his feet twice before lying beside the fire in the corner where he must have been curled up before. Jon isn't often parted from his direwolf, but Ghost had been reluctant to leave Robb's wolf when the idea of camping came up. The truth is - Jon isn't surprised to see the wolf had eventually slipped away from Robb and Grey Wind and found Rhaegar. His father is the only other person in the castle that Ghost will take orders from.

Jon notices the desk is strewn with paper - most appear to be letters, though a few are maps of Essos as well. Jon does not have much time to dwell on them. Instead his eyes linger on the thin circle of gold at the corner. Aegon's crown, which he had purposely left at the foot of his bed, has founds its home on their father's desk.

"I always imagined that you would become a knight," Rhaegar says as he takes his seat behind the desk.

Jon's eyes immediately snap away from the crown towards his father. "So did I. Once upon a time, I thought I might even become a member of the Kingsguard. Of course, at some point, I also wanted to head to the North and take the black."

"Like your Uncle Benjen," Rhaegar wagers.

"Like Uncle Aemon," Jon corrects because even though it was Benjen who convinced Jon to visit the Wall when he spent a year at Winterfell, it was Aemon's letters about Castle Black that first peeked Jon's curiosity. "Although I would have been better suited for a ranger than a maester."

Rhaegar seems to consider that, fingers steepled under his chin. "The job you will have now will be a touch of both."

"Aye. I supposed that's true." Jon's eyes find the crown again unwittingly.

"You can pick it up." Rhaegar doesn’t say _it’s yours now,_  but he gestures towards it gently as if he is coaxing a spooked mare towards a barn. Jon bristles a little at the treatment and finds himself reaching out rather boldly to take it.

"It's light,” Jon notes immediately, as it rest on his fingertips. It feels as delicate as it looks.

""This one will be much heavier,” Rhaegar says, gesturing to his own crown.

Jon had never really noticed his father’s crown. It was always just a part of him. The gold is so pale it almost matches his hair. It twists into points that look like flames, and the adornments are simple – a row of two black diamonds for every amethyst.

Aegon’s crown was a darker shade and half the size of their father’s. Jon can feel it settle in his curls as he places it on his head. He wonders if it is even visible there.

"I feel very foolish wearing this," Jon blurts out and what follows is a very unusual burst of laughter from his usually composed and stoic father.  "What?"

Rhaegar shakes his head, laughter tapering off. "Do not change, Jon."

Jon cannot help but smile bittersweet. "Why would I start now?"

Maybe Jon imagines it but there is a flash of relief that passes over his father's face.

 

iii. a love - the marriage of cassana baratheon

Viserys is cruel in ways that Jon knows all too well from Daenerys’ letters. It’s a wickedness that is shrewd and calculating, but with very little foresight. And still, it is a cruelty that almost always hits its target. He wishes he would have thought about it sooner. For Dany’s sake. Maybe he could have saved her from this game.

“Jon,” Rhaegar says softly, “My hands are tied.”

Jon was never jealous of Aegon when he was prince, but Aegon – the runaway who married his true love – that man Jon envies. That kind of marriage was meant to be his.

“I just pray that Dany has the kind of husband she deserves,” Jon says diplomatically.

“If she doesn’t, she will make him into one,” Rhaegar says confidently and Jon smiles because that seems like enough of a truth to settle the shattered pieces of his heart.

\---

When Jon weds Cassana Baratheon, it is a hodgepodge of religious traditions. Before the wedding, the septons have many heated conversations with the Starks trying to pin down a ceremony that represents both religions well. When Robb had wed Rhaenys, there had been two separate ceremonies, the official one in King’s Landing with only the Faith’s traditions and one when Robb and Rhaenys moved to the North in Winterfell’s godswood that satisfied the North. Never before has there been a crowned prince who worships the old gods – or a royal wedding that blended two faiths into one ceremony.

For all the bickering between the Faith and the North’s representatives, it is Rhaegar who manages to arrange the ceremony. No one dares mention why he is so good at blending the traditions – not after Lord Manderly makes the mistake of saying it will be the first royal wedding before a heart tree and Rhaegar snaps and tells him that is a lie. Westeros forgets that Rhaegar wed a Northern girl in a godswood in Nightsong in the same manner that Jon forgets that woman is his mother.

In the end, Targaryens, Starks, Lannisters and Baratheons, along with the other high lords and ladies of Westeros gather in the Red Keep’s godswood – a place most had forgotten existed – as Jon and Cassana exchange vows in front of a septon and a heart tree overrun with smokeberry vines.

Through it all, Jon finds his eyes darting through the crowd. He gleans the wariness in his good-mother Cersei’s eyes, the wrinkled nose of Jon Arryn and his wife (who have yet to commit men to the crown’s cause against Viserys) and the mixture of pain and joy on Lyanna Lannister’s face as she watches a ceremony so very similar to one once her own unfold. Jon tries not to dwell on any of these things for too long.

While Jon studies the men and women around him as inconspicuously as possible, his bride keeps her eyes fixed on Jon. Jon doesn’t doubt that it is her fierce gaze that’s causing him to look elsewhere lest he trip over his vows. Cassana, of course, does not have this problem. She speaks with a clear strong voice – confident in her place in a way Jon never seems to manage.

When they reach the end – red and black cloaks secured around her shoulders, Jon carefully lifts her into his arms so they can begin their journey to the Throne Room. As soon as he does, he hears a hitch in her breath.

“Are you all right?” Jon murmurs, very much aware that those piercing eyes are still stuck on him.

“Do not drop me,” she whispers into his ear, and Jon finds himself unconsciously shifting her in his arms. They are the first sign of hesitance he has seen. When he looks in her eyes, he finally sees his own uncertainty staring back.

Jon nods and the arms around his neck tighten.

\---

If Daenerys Targaryen was considered to be the most beautiful woman in Westeros, then Cassana Baratheon is considered a very close second. Cassana looks nothing like a Targaryen with her thick curtain of black hair and emerald eyes. Her frame lacks the delicate strength of Valyria and is instead the graceful curves of an Andal. She does not smile often and when she does, she is not trying to convince the world that a thousand secrets lie behind it. Cassana is sharp honesty which is a breath of fresh air in King’s Landing.

But above all else, Cassana understands heartache – specifically Jon’s kind of heartache. For over half a decade, Jon was meant to marry Daenerys Targaryen, but that was before he was a crowned prince and she was sold off to a Dothraki khal as Viserys’ first act of war. Cassana was betrothed once too – to a Valeman, who would have been the Lord of Runestone someday. Though the match was less ambitious than one would have expected for a Baratheon or a Lannister, Cassana had loved Andar Royce since he had come to squire for her father. It had taken a full year to convince her parents that they should let her wed the man. But even after they had given their blessing, Cassana never got her wish. No more than two weeks before Cassana was set to wed Andar, he died in a hunting accident.

"Andar liked his wine," Cassana whispers one night a few months after they have wed. They are tangled up in bed, sharing the sorrows of their past. "I have no doubt one of my mother's men slipped something in there."

"You really believe that?" Jon asks, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. It slides like silk between his fingers. Cassana catches his hand before it can really retreat and leaves it against her cheek.

"I believe I was always meant to wed a crowned prince, whether I wanted to or not,” Cassana says plainly.

"I was never meant to be a king," Jon counters.

Cassana’s lips quirk up. Even the smallest of grins from Cassana are rare treasure and always bright enough to light a room.

"That's why I like you," she says as she leans forward to kiss him. Jon believes her, and this is why he likes her as well.

\---

The War of the False Heirs goes on for years, though there are times where most of Westeros can forget they are at war. Viserys will wage two or three battles and then retreat back to the shadows of Essos to wait weeks or months before striking again in an entirely new place. All the while, Dorne, some of Storm’s End and the Reach hold the line and wait for his return. This means Jon spends months battling in the eastern region of the Crownlands and then comes home to regroup with his father who has seen his own battlefields to the new border of Storm’s End, close to Summerhall.

The process leaves Jon on edge. It seems that every time he comes back, large chunks of his life have been carved away and he can only fill in the gaps with stories from his wife. The first time he leaves Cassana has just discovered she is with child. When he returns, he already has a son who is large enough to sit up on his own.

Daeron has the dark hair of a Baratheon and the jaw of a Northern man, but his eyes prove that the Targaryen genes are strong. They are a bold shade of purple, like his grandfather.  His sister Eliana, who follows two years later, is very much the same. Despite the fact that they look so similar, their attitudes vary drastically. Where Daeron inherited all the reserve of his parents, Eliana has dragon’s fire and wolf’s blood running through her veins. Every time Jon returns, it is to Eliana darting through the castle at breakneck speed to greet him and her mother always a few steps behind and a touch more exhausted than Jon left her.

Today is Jon’s first full day back from a five month battle in the Tumbleton. He takes his wife and children to one of the Keep’s many coves that face Blackwater Rush where they spend the day building sand castles and collecting shells. As the afternoon starts to wane, Daeron and Eliana have both fallen asleep on top Ghost who is laid out by Jon’s hip. Jon has his arms around Cassana’s swollen waist. Their third born is due any day now and Cassana has found the only comfortable position for her is inbetween Jon’s legs, back against Jon’s chest.

“War seems so far away when I’m here,” Jon admits quietly, and Cassana shifts in his arms careful not to disturb Daeron who has rolled closer to their legs.  

“My father was not a sentimental man and he never spent time doing anything without a purpose, so I thought it was odd that when he came back from the War with the Iron Islands, he would sit outside with my mother, listening to us play in the fields below,” Cassana pauses, closing her eyes almost as though she can see herself there again – and Jon can see her too– a tiny raven haired beauty looking up at her mother and father on their courtyard at Storm’s End.

“And because it didn’t fit with the man I knew, I asked him why he did it. He said if you memorized that noise – that little bit of joy in life – you could keep it with you in war and remember why you had to come back, but also why you had to go.”

Men don’t always come back, and Lord Stannis is a good example of that. He died early in the war and though Cassana and her sisters believe it was an honorable death, and therefore the way he would have wanted to go, Jon knows it eats away at each of them.

“I’m sorry he died,” Jon says quietly.

“I’m not,” Cassana responds darkly, but then seeing the way Jon’s eyebrows shoot up, she sighs, sounding every bit like her father’s daughter. “Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I’m sad that he died. But I also know it would have killed him to see any part of Storm’s End supporting Viserys and that was inevitable with Viserys having lived most of his life at Summerhall, and Uncle Renly basically glued to Loras Tyrell’s backside. Father still would have seen it as a personal failing.”

Jon knows Cassana is right, of course. It was by pure luck that the Stormlands had stayed united under Stannis when war first broke out. As soon as Stannis died, that unity feel apart. Renly declared himself Stannis’ heir and broke ranks to support Viserys, or more accurately House Tyrell, while Cersei rightfully claimed herself regent for her young son and the true heir of Storm’s End. Houses in the Stormlands all took sides and the schism is just another reason the war had become known as the War of False Heirs.

“Your mother and Ser Davos will get all of Storm’s End back. For Stannis’ sake and your brother’s.”

“Aye,” Cassana says. Jon knows she is not convinced. She lost all confidence she had in them winning this war the moment her father died though she doesn’t dare voice that to Jon.

“Your father was right though,” Jon says, rubbing small circles on Cassana’s stomach.  “You keep the ghosts at bay.”

Cassana smiles softly. “So do you.”  

\---

One week later, he sees Cassana before she goes into the birthing chamber.

She is pale and sweating, but she still manages a shaky smile for him. He kisses her forehead and wraps her hands in his. It’s the first time he will be in King’s Landing when his wife gives birth and so he wants to be with her or at the very least stay outside the door. Instead he is assured that she will be fine and there are better things he can be doing with his time – Cassana is still nothing if not tactful. And so Jon goes back to his father’s study to plan their next assault on High Garden and listen to more excuses from the Riverlands about why they cannot call their banners yet.

Ten hours later, he has a beautiful baby daughter.

But no wife.

\---

Jon delays his departure until after the funeral despite the rumors that Viserys is set to make his next campaign north of Tarth any day now. Instead Targaryen bannermen ride out after dawn to meet Viserys under the command of Ser Griffin Connington, and Jon finds himself on the rampart overlooking the gatehouse where the men are departing.

Cersei is beside him, leaning against one of the crenels. She and her son barely managed to escape Storm’s End, leaving Ser Davos in charge of the castle so that she could come to King’s Landing and bury her daughter.

Jon has not spent much time with his good mother. Most of what he knows about her had come from Cassana and those stories were a mixed bag. What he knows is Cersei was born to be a queen – she walked into a room and you felt the urge to bend your knee or bow your head. That is the kind of woman she is, but despite that natural majesty, those cards never fell in her favor and so she passed those goals onto her eldest daughter.

Cersei may have wished for Cassana to become queen, but Jon was not the Targaryen she assumed her daughter would be marrying to make that dream a reality. Jon knows she does not like him. He is too reserved, too kind, too Northern. Maybe if circumstances were different – if her grandchildren weren’t royalty, if her son’s claim to the Stormlands wasn’t being threatened – she might even had sided with Viserys, believing Jon to be nothing more than a glorified bastard.

Instead, she stands by his side while the silent sisters prepare her daughter’s body for the last day of her funeral. Morning prayer will be starting soon. Something both of them dread because it will be the last time they see her face.

 “I lost my husband and my daughter to this war,” Cersei says, sipping at the Dornish wine she nicked from the kitchens. It is too early to be drinking, but Jon will not be the one to tell her that. Not today. Instead he quirks his head at the idea that Cassana was a casualty of war, and Cersei smirks like he’s taken the bait. “Every time you were gone, it wore on her.  She may not have loved you like she did Andar, but she cared deeply for you. That stress is what put her in this early grave.”

Jon knows better than to argue with Cersei’s logic. Cassana had often said that her mother’s love of her family could overshadow all reason.  Deep down Jon knows there may even be some truth to what she says. Each time he returned from battle, Cassana’s relief was more visible if only because it highlighted the increasing signs of weariness it was replacing.

“I wish that weren’t the case,” Jon says honestly. It only serves to make Cersei scoff into her glass. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride them.”

Jon finds his irritation bubbling over in a way that only his good mother is capable of provoking and so he snaps.  “What do you want from me, Cersei?”

He can feel Cersei staring at him, but he refuses to meet her eyes, afraid if he does, he will feel more anger or even worse, regret.

“I want Renly Baratheon’s head on a spike,” Cersei says finally, and Jon cannot help but laugh at such a thing. It’s not as though he doesn’t bear ill will towards Renly. It’s the thought that such a violent act could bring Cersei peace.

“Maybe we will get to mount it next to Viserys,” Jon says wryly, chancing at look at her. She doesn’t seem amused. Instead she looks at him with such anger in her eyes that Jon is suddenly reminded of the stories of his grandfather – The Mad King. Maybe this is the source of the regality he always sensed in her.

“Give it time, Jon,” she says quietly, “Viserys has not taken anything you cared to lose yet. When he does, you will feel it. It’s a rage so blinding it burns past all compassion and reason. It leaves you with nothing but vengeance.”

“You’re wrong,” Jon says and all he can think of is the woman he loved who is now called khaleesi and the dark haired boy named Rhaego that could have been his. Jon loved his wife and he loves his children, but his heart will never stop aching for the life he could have had with Daenerys. “He has taken plenty.”

Jon finally chances another look at his good mother and he finds her eyes have softened, though not enough to dwell that fire. Instead, Cersei is looking at him with pity. “Not enough it seems.”

 

iv. a father - the death of a king

In the end, Rhaegar’s life ends where it almost did over two decades prior. On the Trident in the last throws of a war. House Martell has already ceded to Rhaegar’s host a month prior. Ser Davos had gotten his namesake, Little Lord Davos Baratheon, and Lady Cersei back the Stormlands by cutting down Renly. The mercenaries that Viserys had hired from Bravos had already fled. The Reach was all that was left and as the Second Battle of the Trident wound down, they are surrendering when Jon receives word that he was needed at the eastern battlefront.

The moment he sees Lord Connington and Ser Arthur outside of the tent, he knows what he is going to find within. As he draws closer, Arthur holds his shoulder as Lord Connington speaks. Instead of accepting defeat and surrendering, Viserys had driven his sword through Rhaegar’s back as the scattered remains of his host had retreated. No one expected the king to last more than an hour.

“Jon,” Rhaegar says softly as soon as he enters the tent. His already pale complexion is almost gray and his body is wracked with subtle tremors. The first thing Jon does when he takes a seat beside Rhaegar is to pull the cover up around his father’s shoulder – as if it can ward off the chill of death. “Lord Connington told me you secured the Tyrell’s surrender.”

An hour ago the Tyrell surrender seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel. For a moment even Jon thought it might be his proudest moment as a warrior, but now it shares the same space as the demise of his father.  

“I did,” Jon say quietly.

Rhaegar gives him a weak smile. “Unfortunately I was unable to do the same with Viserys.”

“There will be no surrender for Viserys.” Jon doesn’t recognize the venom in his own voice, but the sentiment lingers. Maybe Jon expected for his father to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead Rhaegar lets out a long breath.

“I always thought we’d have more time.”

“So did I,” Jon whispers, eyes darting to the edge of the cot – far enough away from his father’s face. He cannot bring himself to admit that he already feels lost, but Rhaegar, like always, knows exactly what Jon is thinking. He places his hand on the side of Jon’s face and turns it until Jon’s eyes meet his own again.

“You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done,” Rhaegar says, his hand ice cold against Jon’s cheek. “Kill the boy, my son. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.”

Jon wants to tell him he is not ready – that he cannot do this without him. But he knows there is no other way. There never has been. Kings do not get to rule with their fathers beside them. “Yes, father.”

Rhaegar smiles bright in a way that Jon rarely saw. He pats Jon’s cheek before letting his hand fall to Jon’s, curling there in a loose grip. He closes his eyes, and Jon knows what comes next though he wishes more than anything there was a way to make time stop.

“Tell Lyanna it was worth it,” Rhaegar whispers.

And with those words, King Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name, draws his last breath.

_\---_

They’ll send his body back, guarded by Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur. It’s only a day’s ride to King’s Landing. Jon will take his company through the Bay of Crabs in the hopes they will be able to cut Viserys off before he sets sail to Essos. The war is over – as his men continue to tell him – the Martells and Tyrells have bent the knee to Jon. Jon does not remember this. He does not remember anything other than his father in that tent. Dying.

This is not the beginning of Jon’s story. But Jon at twenty-four has lost more than he ever imagined he could at the true beginning – fifteen and standing at the edge of the world. _Give it time,_  Cersei had said – and now that rage boils now in a way only she could have seen.

This is a beginning in the fact that it’s where his reign starts – on a battlefield littered with dead men, crown plucked from the remains of his dead father, wiped clean of his blood with a dirty rag and still warm when it’s placed upon his head.

It is a beginning, but Jon is only thinking about endings.  He can only think about Viserys’ head on a spike.

\---

His men try and convince him to sail past Quiet Isle, but the moment Jon sees shore he knows that Viserys is there.  His men raid the cottages there and apprehend what’s left of Viserys’ “kingsguard.” Jon meanwhile heads directly for the cave.

Jon did not see Viserys at the Trident. He had been on the other side of the battleground facing the Tyrell host. He had heard the rumors though. Viserys was no longer the handsome prince that had charmed Westeros’ greatest lords and ladies into betraying their king. His face was covered in burns from his fleet’s loss in the Stormlands. His eyes were sunken in and his face gaunt as though he hadn’t slept in years.

“Viserys,” Jon swallows down the urge to strike first. “It is over.”

“I will not bow to some Targaryen pretender,” Viserys says, unsheathing his sword. Jon can see now that he’s favoring his left side. His gate is erratic and his breathing already shallow. Every labored breath his uncle takes is a reminder of his father’s last.

“Do you think that bothers me?” Jon says evenly, “You may look Targaryen, but if anyone is the pretender, it is you, Viserys. Fire and blood, you proclaim, but you burned like a common man when we torched your ships. You are nothing but a kinslayer and a kingslayer. There is nothing honorable about you, nothing extraordinary. You are not even worthy of my blade.”

Viserys cackles. “Spare me then – like your father spared our father’s killer. I can take the black with all the other murderers and rapists you hold so dear. Or better yet, maybe you can send me to Casterly Rock so I can really follow a kingslayer’s steps and bed your whore of a mother.”

Viserys steps forward and the glint of his blade catches in the candles. Rhaegar’s blood still stains his sword. Cersei’s words are again in Jon’s ear – drowning out every time he was told to be patient. To keep steady. To be the better man and forgive. _Give it time_ , she had said, _You will feel it_.

Jon cannot kill Viserys. He is not a kinslayer, but his rage boils loud enough that he does not have to.

Jon does not order Ghost to raise up from where he is has been circling and catch Viserys by the neck. He does not order his wolf to tear apart the man who killed their king. He never speaks a word, but when he closes his eyes at the howling of Viserys before him he can see red.

Ghost is not Jon, and yet at that moment, Jon is him.

Blood is shed on an island meant for atonement, and Jon doesn’t blink at the irony of it as he carries Viserys’ head, torn from his body by Jon’s wolf, back to his boat.

 

v. resentment - the journey north

Jon is four when a raven comes announcing that his mother has given birth to a girl. At first he does not think anything of it. He goes on playing with his brother. It isn’t until much later at night that Jon feels anxious in a way he has never felt before. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he toddles out of bed and asks for his guard to get his father.

Jon does not ask for anything – not even at this age. If he could he would fade into the background and disappear to someplace far away. North, probably. He has lived in the South since his birth, but he does not tolerate the heat well. He suffers in silence because it is the only way he knows.

And yet now that Jon has found the courage to summon his father, he feels a heavy weight lifted high enough that the tears he’s bottled up can suddenly flow.

Rhaegar is there only a few minutes later, slightly out of breath and crouched beside his son’s bed. “What’s wrong, Jon?”

"Does my mother love me?" Jon blurts out and his heart races. He never imagined he would ever find the nerve to ask such a thing. Maybe if he had been older he never would have. Rhaegar does not look angry at his question. Only sad – about as sad as Jon feels.

Rhaegar takes a deep breath. "I think she loves you very much."

Rhaegar smooths the curls from Jon’s forehead and Jon feels himself smiling. His father would not lie to him. Not about this.

His eyes flicker closed and he starts to drift back to sleep. Jon can feel his father’s eyes still on him. His voice is softer this time, less certain when he repeats the sentiment. "She loved you."

Jon now knows that last declaration has little to do with Lyanna’s feelings for him.

\---

“Do you have to go?” Elianna asks quietly, rocking back and forth on her heels.

Jon has been king for a little over two years when he receives letters from both his uncle Ned and Lord Commander Mormont telling him that the arrival of winter has brought magic and terrors once confined to children’s stories and wives’ tales. Both men warn that their hosts will not be enough to hold the Wall, and so Jon finds himself packing his bags and heading north.

“He’ll be okay, Ellie,” Daeron says, placing his hand on his sister’s shoulder. At age eight, Daeron remembers more than both his sisters, but he has a profound sense of optimism that refuses to be crushed no matter what comes their family’s way. Jon wishes he knew where it came from.

Rhaenyra peeks her head around Daeron eyeing the commotion and trying to decide whether she should be worried. At only four, she has no memories of her mother and barely remembers her grandfather. There is little for her to know of death, but she already has a keen sense of intuition that makes her lingers closer to her father, tugging at his sleeve and asking to be picked up.

Jon stops his packing and swoops the little girl in his arms. She is the most Targaryen looking of his children – light gold hair delicate frame and pale skin. Her eyes are all Cassana – emerald green and always sharp.

“I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to,” Jon says finally. Elianna doesn’t look convinced. She is still every bit of the firecracker that she was before Cassana passed, but there is a part of her that is too weary from loss and Jon sees it every time he is called away from King’s Landing. For all her toughness, she looks like she is doing everything she can to stay brave and keep from crying.

Ser Arthur clears his throat in the doorway and Jon has never been more grateful to see the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“Don’t you worry one bit, Princess,” Arthur says. “I’ll be with him the whole time.”

Elianna’s eyes narrow as if she’s not sure what to make of his words. “You promise?”

Arthur smiles. “Of course. I’ve been protecting the king since before he was born.”

Elianna nods solemnly and then turns back towards her father. She points her finger at him in what is her very best impression of her late mother and says evenly, “Stay with Arthur, Daddy.”

Though he makes no comment at that time, Arthur’s grin is still present even after Jon has hugged his children goodbye and they are ushered back to their bedrooms.

“Did you hear that, your Grace?” Arthur says finally, “Even your daughter recognizes that I’m the key to your survival.”

Jon huffs indignantly. He is a man of twenty and six and a king at that and yet Arthur, it seems, will never see him as anything other than a child. “My daughter is six, Arthur.”

“And she is the seventh person in your short life who’s made me promise to keep you safe,” Arthur says clapping him on the shoulder. “You forget that this is my job.”

\---

The journey north is not just for war. There is also a wedding to attend. Jon's sister, Joanna, had been one of Cassana's ladies in waiting, and it had taken Griffin over half a decade to convince her to wed him. Griffin, one of the finest knights in all of the seven kingdoms, describes it as his most hard fought victory. Jon does not have the heart to tell him that Joanna would have said yes the first time if he hadn't been so overconfident.

Joanna had been at Casterly Rock when the letters from the north reached Jon's desk. Despite Jon's reassurances that Griffin did not need to join him at The Wall, Griffin knew Jon needed all the men he could get from the south. There was not enough time for them to wait for Joanna to make the journey back to King's Landing and since the King's host was needed on the western side of The Wall, it made more sense to sail out of Lannisport rather than Griffin's Roost after the wedding. And so the wedding of Joanna Lannister and Griffin Connington is set to take place at Casterly Rock.

This is the one capital Jon has never stepped foot in. He had once spent over a year at Winterfell. After he was crowned King and the war was over, he had broken bread at Sunspear and High Garden in the hopes of improving relations there. When he courted Cassana, he visited Storm's End and when he courted troops for The War of False Heirs he was in Riverrun and The Eyrie. He even visited Pyke to oversee the return of Theon Greyjoy to his family.

Jon has made great strides in building a relationship with his mother since Robb’s wedding. She has visited King’s Landing for Jon’s own wedding and even attended feasts to honor the birth of his children. He was set to take a trip to Casterly Rock right after Elianna’s birth, but not long after the idea had been formalized, his wife had died and the war had become more arduous. Plans were put on the backburner. And then Rhaegar died and Jon's rage over that loss simmered into a dull ache that only grew worse when he thought of his mother.

He knew that Rhaegar wanted him to mend that fence - to kill the scared, abandoned boy and become the proud king. But Jon does not know how. He has spent his whole adult life trying to know the woman who was his mother - to never press too hard or ask too many questions of her because he could not be sure whether he would like the answers. He did not know if he could forgive her if he didn't.

His father died with his mother's name on his lips, and every time he sees her smile at her husband, he feels his stomach curl. His father must have been wrong. It could not have been worth it.

"You brood too much, Jon."

Joanna has taken a seat next to Jon at the head table. It's her wedding feast and she has spent most of her time being spun around the dance floor by her husband. Griffin has finally given her a reprieve so that he can dance with his mother.

"You shouldn't call me Jon," he says plainly, but it lacks any real reprimand. He turns and finds Joanna staring at him with a curious grin. Briefly, Jon is reminded of Cydra. She used to smile like that whenever she found him lost in his own head, as though she knew just how to pull him out of the darkness. Joanna is not as good as Cydra was, but she does well enough.

" _King_ Jon, you brood too much." Only Joanna can make the title of king seem like an insult and it is enough to make Jon smile, which seemed to be her goal all along. Still when the smiles fade, she turns serious. "Are you thinking of Cassana?"

"No," Jon says though thoughts of her are never that far away, especially during weddings.

"Are you thinking of mother?" Joanna asks and Jon realizes he must have glanced at their table again. Joanna frowns when he doesn't answer - rightfully assuming she is correct. "I thought things had gotten better."

Jon takes a sip of his drink, trying hard not to meet her gaze. "They did."

"And then your father died."

Jon smiles again, this time it is sad. "You are wise beyond your years, Jo."

Joanna clicks her tongue. "You shouldn't call me Jo."

"Lady Jo," Jon corrects.

"Much better," she says and her grin is back. They sit in silence as the song playing dies down and blends into another. Jon can see the gears in Joanna's mind turning, until she finally speaks again. This time her voice is barely a whisper. "Your father forgave mine for something that seems unthinkable. Some people might think it's foolish but I think there is a special kind of courage in that level of forgiveness."

Jon knows this all too well, but it does not give him much peace. "Maybe I'm not enough my father's son."

"Or too much our mother's," Joanna counters.

Jon cannot help the bitterness that escapes at the truth. "I wouldn't know."

Joanna presses her hand over his and squeezes.

\---

Jon exits the feast before the bedding ceremony, but he can still hear the ruckus coming from the halls leading to the bed chambers from the library he has snuck into. He is not much of a reader, but he will take any advantage for this upcoming battle and Tyrion Lannister once told him that if he were to ever visit The Rock, he should make it a priority to stop in their library. It is twice the size of the one in the Red Keep and filled with tomes on the old gods and old magic.

He is half way through the book he was reading, when he hears the door to the library swing open. The noises from the halls double in sound and Jon instinctively frowns at the intrusion only to discover it is his mother.

“Your father loved that story,” Lyanna says gesturing to the book on his lap. There were many books filled with old legends of The Night King, giants and wights, but instead Jon found himself gravitating toward a book on ice dragons – creatures twice the size of Valyrian dragons, made of living ice and breathing cold.

“So did I,” Jon says softly, handing the copy over to his mother. “I used to make him read it to me constantly as a boy and he always obliged. He liked to tell me that I shouldn’t worry that I looked more Northern than Valyrian because not all dragons were fire, some were ice instead.”

“That sounds like Rhaegar,” Lyanna presses her hand to the cover of the book and traces the lines of the dragon. The dragon there has eyes the same shade of purple as Rhaegar and Jon wonders if that’s why she stares at it so reverently.

“Tell Lyanna it was worth it,” Jon says. The words have been echoing in his ears since the moment Rhaegar said them and he never imagined he’d ever actually say them to his mother, but here they are – having their first ever conversation about Rhaegar two and a half decades into Jon’s life. “Those were his last words.”

Jon doesn’t know what he anticipated Lyanna would do upon hearing it, but ‘burst into tears’ was not anywhere on his list of expectations. Jon wonders if she ever allowed herself to shed a tear over Rhaegar or if she never felt anything but discontent for him until now when Jon has given her something good to remember him by.

“I loved him. I swear I did,” Lyanna says in between shuddering breaths. She has gotten her sobs under control but she still seems overwhelmed by it. “I love Jaime more than I ever thought I’d be capable of loving another, but my heart was broken when Rhaegar and I fell apart and it broke again when he died.”

“Did you love me?” Jon asks before he can stop himself. “I know you said you loved him, but-”

“I love you. I have and will always love you, Jon,” Lyanna says fiercely. Her tears are no longer present, replaced by a fire in her eyes that he had only heard about. “You have to know that.”

“I don’t,” Jon says hoarsely. His anger is a living, breathing thing that has curled up inside him for so long that when it finally get the chance to escape, it stutters and starts rather than roars loudly. “You never once wrote to me. Never once did you try to visit. There were a thousand opportunities for us to cross paths, and yet not once did you show yourself. Not until I had to beg Uncle Ned to ask you to attend Robb’s wedding.”

“I didn’t think Rhaegar would allow it. I didn’t know what he would do.” Lyanna looks at him with pleading eyes. “He took you from me, Jon. He had you plucked from my arms. What should I have expected?”

Elia would have known – Jon thinks instinctively. Elia would have known that Rhaegar lashed out when he was hurting, but that he always came to his senses. He always saw reason when it came to his children. Lyanna would not have known because their love had burned bright enough to blind them both to their own shortcomings.

“You didn’t know him at all,” Jon says, the venom in the words dulled by the weariness of the truth behind them. Lyanna deflates at the words.                           

“There was not enough time to know him,” Lyanna says simply. Timidly, she places her hand over his and Jon lets it stay. It is the same kind of comfort that Elia’s touches provide.

“He was good and kind, and yet, I cannot understand why he kept me,” Jon says, “Maybe I’m the one who did not know him.”

“The truth is Jon – I wanted you with my whole heart, but deep down I know that it was nothing compared to how much Rhaegar longed for a third child,” Lyanna says. “He had dreamed of you long before we had even met and was so worried about your safety that he took two kingsguard with us the moment he learned I was pregnant. I may not have known him, but the part of me that never stops loving him is the part that knew how much he loved you.”

Lyanna squeezes his hand. “And he was right – you were worth it.”

\---

They are set to leave two mornings after the wedding which means most of the day after the ceremony is spent in Lannister studies planning their trip north. Most of this is done without the King because Jon admittedly knows very little about ships. As such, he leaves the fleet plans to Lord Connington and some of the Lannister men, including Ser Jaime who had proven quiet effective during the Greyjoy Rebellion. While they iron out the quickest way North, Jon spends a few quiet moments in the castle’s godswood.

Of course, quiet does not mean he is alone. Arthur stands a few paces behind Jon, leaning against one of the oaks in the garden as Jon sits before the weirwood. Arthur is Jon’s shadow – has been for as long as Jon can remember. Ser Gerold used to joke that there were only six members of the Kingsguard and one full time nanny. Arthur, for his part, always laughed along with his brothers.

Growing up, Jon had wondered why one knight of the kingsguard was dedicated to his protection when the others were shuffled between his siblings. And his bodyguard is not just any knight, but arguably the deadliest knight in the seven kingdoms. He had asked Arthur about it once when he was ten or eleven and the only answer he got was a raised eyebrow.  He never asked again.

Now, a decade and a half later, he thinks it might be the time to try again.

“Who was the seventh?”

Jon cannot see Arthur behind him, but he can picture the way Arthur’s brow furrows as he responds. “I’m not sure what you mean, your Grace.”

Jon shifts on the stone he’s perched on so that he is face to face with Arthur. “You said over the years you promised seven people that you would keep me safe. I’ve counted my father and Elia. I also assume that Cydra and Aegon probably asked it of you before they left for Essos. Then there’s my wife who never really hid the fact that she expected you to be my personal bodyguard and then of course, my daughter. That totals six.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “How did you know that Cydra and Aegon told me they were leaving?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Jon says but when he sees Arthur will not budge first he sighs, “You were the closest thing Cydra had for a father, and Aegon would have wanted someone to look after me. He was only a few months older but he took the older brother seriously.”

“That is true, your Grace,” Arthur says softly. He glances quickly down at Jon and then back to the weirwood beside them. “The seventh was your mother.”

Jon feels his heart stammer at the answer, surprised and also ashamed at not figuring it out sooner. He cannot keep the bewilderment from his voice when he confirms what he’s heard. “Lyanna?”

Arthur tilts his head to the side, as though Jon is a puzzle he cannot quite figure out. “Did you forget that I was at the Tower of Joy?”

“No,” Jon says, “I just assumed – I assumed you were there for my father.”

Arthur smiles sadly. “We were there for the prince that was promised.”

Jon opens his mouth to respond. He hates that nickname more than any of the others – even the crueler ones like “Jon Snow”.  Before he can say a word though, Arthur keeps talking.

“Lyanna almost died giving birth to you. She was losing blood fast and then when the maester finally got the bleeding under control, she had a fever that wouldn’t break. We still had no word whether your father or Robert Baratheon had come out victorious at the Trident. She was afraid she would die and you would be all alone. So she made me promise that I would keep you safe until my dying breath – that I would put you first, before all other Targaryens.”

“I should have said no. It was not an honorable thing to do. My responsibility should have been to Aerys first and then afterwards to Rhaegar, but I made that promise because I believed your father. I believed you were destined for great things.”

Jon doesn’t ask if he regrets it. Arthur would say no even if he did and with his impeccable poker face, Jon would never know whether it was the truth.

Instead he tries to imagine his mother lying in a bed of blood and begging for his life. All his life, the truth about his mother was only two paces behind him and only Jon’s resentment had blinded him from asking him. Or maybe Lyanna wasn’t the only one afraid of answers.  

“She was the first,” Jon says quietly.

“Aye,” Arthur says heavily, as if he’s waited twenty-six years to admit it.

\---

Lyanna rides out with them to Lannisport. She watches Jaime carefully as he lingers on the docks, checking all of his supplies and avoiding Lyanna’s eyes. The Lannister bannermen are a southern army which is why Jon’s commanders were surprised to see them so well prepared for a winter war. Jon knows their preparedness is due to the Lady of Casterly Rock.

Finally she seems to grow tired of his avoidance and wraps her hand around his chin tilting it towards her so they are finally eye to eye. She whispers something low – something that softens Jaime’s perpetual smirk into a tender smile – and then presses a kiss on his cheek.

“While we’re young, Lannister!” Lord Connington shouts from his perch by one of the shrouds of his boat. Jaime makes a rude gesture and leans closer to banter with his critic while Lyanna slides away towards Jon who has done a good job pretending he wasn’t waiting to say goodbye.

“Lady Lyanna,” Jon says inclining his head. Lyanna raises an eyebrow and before he can say anything more, she pulls him into an embrace, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

“Be safe,” Lyanna says as she pulls back and with a smile she tugs at one of the curls on his head, like he is the babe whose safety she begged for and not the king of Westeros. Jon feels any lasting piece of reserve crumble around him.

“If the gods are good to us and when this war is over I’ve seen it to the other side, I would like it if you and your husband spent some time in King’s Landing.”

 Lyanna’s smile shines as bright as sunlight glistening off the snow in winter. “I would love that, Jon.”

With a final nod, Jon makes his way towards the flagship he is set to sail on when he notices that Ser Jaime is following him.

"Can I help you, Ser Jaime?" Jon asks, “Your warship is at the other end of the pier.”

"Slight change of plans, your Grace,” Jaime says, as he hops onto the deck of Jon’s ship, _Ghost_. The ship’s namesake barely moves from where he’s curled up on the deck. Jon is still not sure how Ghost will do at sea, but he knows once they are north, he will surely thrive. “Ser Arthur has asked me to accompany you on the journey north because he is needed on _Queen Elia_.”

“Because I know shit about sailing and cannot be trusted on my own?” Jon asks with a wry smile.

“Your words, not mine,” Jaime says, his smirk back in place.

It feels odd for Jon to be without Arthur at his side for this long of a journey, even odder to not have any Kingsguard in his presence for that amount of time. Unless he was meant to count Jaime. As if sensing his train of thought, Jaime adds, “I know I was a great disappointment as a member of the Kingsguard, but I did quite well at sea in the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement. You had one job as Kingsguard and you managed to do the exact opposite of it."

Most men would take great offense at such a statement but instead, Jaime lets out a loud laugh if only to remind Jon that he is not most men.

"You say things like that, your Grace, and it’s like talking to your mother,” his laughter tapers off into small chuckles before he sobers. "I have made the most of this life, but that doesn't mean I don't feel as though I have some making up to do."

"If Arthur trusts you, I trust you," Jon says solemnly, patting Jaime on the shoulder.  

The ships start to pull away from shore and Lyanna is still standing on the dock, one arm wrapped around her stomach and the other over her brow to keep the sun out. She waves at them as they pass by her perch, and Jon finds himself giving her a stiff nod and a wave back.

“She loves you,” Jaime says suddenly. Jon didn’t realize just how close Jaime was, but he is in the exact place Arthur has always occupied– two paces behind Jon’s shoulder. _old kingsguard habits must die hard,_ Jon thinks ruefully.

“I know,” Jon replies and it’s the first times he’s truly believed it since he was four.

 

and i. a destiny - the courtship of jon and daenerys targaryen

Jon cannot breathe. His lungs have seized up and the rest of his chest cavity feels like it has hardened from the endless cold that is flooding through his body. Jon had lived through plenty of battle wounds, but never has a simple jab to the shoulder been enough to knock him to his knees and leave him motionless. The moment the blade had cut into the tissue at the joint, ice had seeped in and spread like wildfire through his veins. His limbs are paralyzed and he struggles with each breath, watching as the Night King steps over corpse after corpse to get to Jon.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Jaime Lannister too has taken a hit from a white walker’s blade. Jaime had stuck by his side through this entire battle – a true kingsguard even if he hadn’t worn the white cloak in years. Jaime’s wound is to the leg and had barely broken skin and yet, his lips have already turned a curious shade of blue and he shivers uncontrollably. Jon wonders if that’s what will come next for him, but then he sees the shadow of the King loom over him and he knows he will not live to see it.

He closes his eyes and thinks of warmth. So much of his childhood was spent trying to escape the insufferable heat of the south, ignoring the comments from court about how ill-suited he was for the Crownlands because his body could not handle the sun. But now, he misses the harsh beat of King’s Landing’s sun. He would give anything for the coves of Blackwater Bay and another summer spent with his children stomping through the sand, his wife curled against his chest as they lamented the deaths of men by other men and not mythical kings forged magic. He would love another morning with Griffin, Aegon and Cydra in the courtyards, engaging in round robin sword fights and looking up to find his father or Elia watching them in amusement. He wishes for Rhaenys’ arm tucked in his as she leads around Cobbler’s Square or Arthur’s pat on the back every time he survived another hunting trip in the kingswood.

He longs for Daenerys’ smile. If he could have just seen it one more time, he thinks it would have been enough to melt every drop of ice that has taken hold of his body. But when Jon opens his eyes, it’s to the Night King standing over him, sword arm raised high. Jon doesn’t think he needs the blade to kill him as his body is already unsteady and his mind is not much further behind. Above the King’s silhouette, Jon swears he can see a dragon.

But ice dragons are meant to be pure white with eyes of sapphire, not dark green and full of fire. Jon never imagined they’d squawk either. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it though. As soon as the red eyes of the beast are close enough for him to see, he promptly passes out.

\---

When Jon is ten, he meets Daenerys at a tournament outside of Lannisport. Jon remembers his father was uncharacteristically nervous when Daenerys’ caravan arrived. His hands tucked behind his back to hide their tremor. He remembers, too, the way Rhaegar’s mother laid her hand on his cheek when she reached them and in an instant, it seemed to sooth all that fear.

He doesn’t have long to dwell on it. Daenerys is soon peeking out from behind her mother. Bright purple eyes boring into his. Jon feels himself flush at the attention. He’s used to getting stared at. Aegon is the spitting image of his father, Rhaenys, the same for her mother, and Jon looks like none of them and that, along with the infamous story of his conception, is enough to make people stare.

It’s rare though that someone would look at him as Daenerys does now - with a wonder that has little to do with his parentage and everything to do with something he can’t put his finger on but is completely innocent.

“Hi,” she says – and Jon does not know how it manages to be both shy and fierce all at once. What he does know is that this girl is the most beautiful person he has ever seen.

Jon finds himself smiling –its own kind of rarity.

\---

The first time Jon wakes – he cannot decide if it’s a dream or the afterlife, but it cannot have been long after being stabbed. His shoulder still burns and he is still frozen throughout. It’s a hazy minute or so that involve him summoning the strength to climb onto something rigid and dark and then whispering a few words in butchered Valyrian before the world fades again. The second time he wakes it’s in a tent with a maester folded over him examining his wound and promptly telling him he will probably pass out again. It’s followed by a sharp burst of pain and darkness.

The third time is most appropriately the charm. This time he blinks awake.

Daenerys is sitting by his bedside, pale blond hair messily plaited in what Jon can only describe as a crown around her head. When she sees his eyes flutter open, her smile is immediate. It is shy and fierce – like she is greeting him at Lannisport. Jon knows despite every inch of his body aching, he must be smiling too.

"I must be dead," Jon murmurs in the direction of the vision in front of him. His hand reaches out to touch what’s before him, sure it will slide away like a reflection in water as soon as he gets close enough. It’s only when he feels the delicate fingers of his companion wrap around his and bring them back down to his side that he thinks this may be real. "That is the only way I would be able to look upon your face again."

"Give him a little milk of the poppy, and the king turns into a poet."

Jon blinks at the sight of Jaime Lannister, leaning against a thick oak staff. He looks a little grey, but much better than the last time Jon saw him. "You're not dead."

"Very observant, your Grace." Jaime’s smirk makes him look a little more like himself. "Are you going to start talking about how grateful you are to gaze into my eyes?"

Jon finds himself laughing, though it jostles his still sore shoulder. "Get out of my sight, Ser Jaime."

"First poetry then a laugh - I think we should drug him all the time,” Jaime mutters as he leaves the room.

With a nod, Jon also dismisses the maester who has been treating his wounds and some of the bannermen who had been hovering inside his tent awaiting for him to wake. He keeps Daenerys’ hand secured in his in the hopes that she will get the message and stay. It doesn’t seem like she had any attention of going anywhere.

"He reminds me of his brother." Daenerys says and Jon smiles at the memory of Tyrion. He only met him twice, both times at court. He had been surprisingly transparent despite his surroundings. Jon had wished him well on his trip to Essos. The idea that he would eventually cross paths with Daenerys’ khalasar seems unsurprising.  

Daenerys presses her free hand against his forehead, brushing one of his curls from his eyes.  “What do you remember?”

“I remember I was dying. The Night King stabbed me in the shoulder and I couldn’t move. He was towering over me, ready to strike. And then there was a noise,” Jon’s memory tapers off at that point, but he can recall the Valyrian echoing in his ears along with the rumble of fire. It sparks a sudden thought. “Did I ride dragon?”

A grin breaks out on Daenerys’ face. “You did. Although honestly it was more like you fell asleep on one.”

Jon finds himself smiling as well. “My children will be upset when I tell them I don’t remember the dragons.”

Daenerys’ grin is still there but it has softened and turned slightly bittersweet. Jon knows that feeling. There is joy in imaging each other as parents, but it’s dampened by the fact that it was not something they had shared together.

Daenerys squeezes the hand in hers. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jon counters, squeezing Daenerys’ hand.

In response, she leans closer, so close Jon can see the deep blue ring around the irises of her normally purple eyes. Jon cannot remember the last time he was close enough to see it.

“There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”  

\---

The last time Jon saw Daenerys was when the Targaryens celebrated Rhaella’s fifty-fifth nameday. Rhaella was not the type of woman who enjoyed being at court. She hadn't stepped foot in King's Landing since Robert's Rebellion and the celebrations she did attend were sparse. Because of this, the king hosts a small gathering at Dragonstone for the occasion. The feast is unlike anything Jon has ever attended. The Targaryens are usually reserved, but take them out of King's Landing and they are full of joy that cannot be contained. They sit around the large banquet table telling stories of old Targaryen kings and queens - their laughter like sweet music that echoes through the halls of the castle. It would have been impossible for Jon to imagine how much that would change in only a few years.

On their last day there, Jon accompanies Daenerys on a walk around the garden. It is the only time they've had alone and they aren’t even really alone. They are of age which means they get the benefit of an escort. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur stay ten or so paces behind the couple so that Jon can almost forget they are - that is until he strays closer to Daenerys and Ser Barristan clears his throat.

"The next time we see each other it will be for our wedding," Daenerys says, hooking her arm in his and glaring back at their accompanying knights before they can say anything.

Jon will head north from here to spend his year in Winterfell while Daenerys will accompany her mother back to Essos where they have lived on and off since Daenerys was born. Daenerys is sure that this will be the last time her mother ventures across the Narrow Sea.

"We could elope now,” Jon suggests, and though it is mostly a joke, a part of him wishes it weren’t. 

"There is a godswood here," Daenerys says, which is news to Jon. Daenerys looks away and Jon has to wonder if it was something Daenerys had insisted upon adding while her mother and she were living here.

"No septon though," Jon notes.

"I don't need a septon. I just need you." Daenerys's head rests upon his shoulder and her voice contains all the warmth he's missed. Since their meeting at Lannisport, Jon and Daenerys haven’t gone more than six months without seeing each other and yet every time seems like too long. 

"You're a romantic," Jon says softly, "Which is why you deserve a big, grand wedding in front of your gods and mine."

Daenerys sighs but when she looks at him she seems resigned to their fate. "It's only a year. Maybe two."

Jon nods and reaches over to squeeze the hand that is braced against Jon's forearm. "And then we'll have a lifetime to be married."

A wind shuffles through the garden, chilled enough that they both are caught off guard and shiver. He is suddenly reminded of the ominous words of his mother’s house and the way his uncle would solemnly whisper them - _winter is coming_.

It’s a fleeting thought. Daenerys smiles at him, leaning up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek and then they both find themselves giggling at the indignant grumble from Ser Barristan behind them as she does.

\---

The story of Daenerys Targaryen starts with the death of her mother days before she was meant to leave for Robb and Rhaenys' wedding and comes to a stop here, as a heavy hearted widow, mother to one of the fiercest khals that ever lived, and proud owner of three dragons. The story takes Daenerys the entire trip from the Wall to Winterfell to tell. Jon listens attentively as she describes her journey through Essos. The joy and the anguish - the unsteadiness of every moment and the strangeness of becoming something greater than you ever imagined - those are things that Jon can comprehend all too well. With every word, Jon finds himself taking comfort in the fact that though much has changed, they still understand each other.

"Is it true that your khalasar outlawed slavery?" Jon asks once Daenerys has finished telling him about her escape from the dosh khaleen and the reconquering of Mereen with the help of her sworn sword Jorah Mormont and trusted counselor Tyrion Lannister.

"It was not my khalasar," Daenerys notes and then seeing the rueful grin on Jon’s face she laughs. "Yes. Drogo was convinced that slavery should be ended by my council. The men he took became part of his khalasar instead and those who refused to ride were left to die. But at least they had a choice. He never understood why it meant so much to me. Rhaego understands though. They call him the Gentleman Khal across the sea."

Jon tries to imagine Rhaego as Daenerys describes him, but he is so many things in his mother’s eyes that it is impossible to put them all together. Jon wonders if that’s how his children are when described through their father’s words.

"Just as they call you breaker of chains in the Free Cities."

"They have many names for me," Daenerys admits, pride just starting to edge into her voice. The North Gate can be seen in the near distance and Daenerys' eyes are drawn to it in wonder just like Jon's were the first time he saw Winterfell. The trance is broken as Drogon swoops low, wing nearly clipping the Broken Tower as he skids to a stop twenty feet from the outer walls. His siblings follow suit. 

"Mother of Dragons is one of I’ve heard as well," Jon notes, gesturing towards the giant beasts ahead. "Is the story of their birth true?"

It is the one part of Daenerys' life that she had skipped over as she talked of her past. Maybe it was because the story was so well known that she didn’t think it needed to mention it. Now based on the far off look in her eyes, he feels it may have been too painful a time to speak of.

"It is," Daenerys says softly tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.  "Grief does strange things to a person."

“Aye, it does,” Jon says, still remembering the pulsing of his veins when he watched his father slip away. Viserys’ death had brought some relief but the loss is like a deep set scar across his chest. It aches with every breath, dulling over time but never really gone.

“I did not just grieve Drogo,” Daenerys says, and when Jon looks over at her, she is staring right at him. “Every single day I thought of you.”

Daenerys blushes when she says it and Jon is reminded of what they were like when they were young. Before she grew into a khaleesi and he became a king, they were the type who were honest with each other even when it was painful for them to admit it aloud.

“It was impossible not to think of you as well,” Jon says. "You are unlike any woman the world has ever seen."

Daenerys must have seen her fair share of flatterers in her travels. Jon knows of a few just from the stories she has told. And yet, her smile is bright at his words as though she sees them as he meant them – as truth.

They ride in comfortable silence the rest of the way to Winterfell’s gates. Once they are inside and dismounted from their horses, Daenerys’ eyes are immediately drawn to the Glass Gardens to her right. Jon can imagine leading her around Winterfell, showing her all of the wonderful places he found in his last visit here. If he can escape his duties for a short while, he imagines they could start in those gardens.

It is a flight of fancy though. He can already see his advisors stomping over to meet him. They are a few steps behind Rhaenys who has missed Dany terribly since she was gone. She will likely steal her away for the rest of their time here and be reluctant to let her go. Even then, it’s only a matter of time before she heads back to Essos and her son.

As if reading his mind, Daenerys reaches over and grabs his hand. “I was hoping I might make the journey south with you. It would be nice to stay in King’s Landing for a while.”

Jon’s heart feels lighter knowing their time together doesn’t have an expiration date. “I would love that.”

\---

When he returns to King’s Landing, Jon finds his children in their solar, lined up against the window sills so they can watch Daenerys’ dragons. It takes them a moment to notice that their father has entered the room as opposed to another caretaker or septa. Rhaenyra is the first to come running towards him at full speed. When Jon takes her in his arms, he sees that her eyes have lightened and now have a touch of grey in them.

Daeron has grown at least three inches since Jon saw him, his head resting just below Jon’s heart when he wraps his arms around him. Elianna is the only one who seems unchanged, but Jon imagines that there will be subtle differences in her that he will notice later.

“You kept your word, Ser Arthur,” Elianna says from her father’s hip. Jon has his back to Arthur but he can hear him chuckle.

 “Of course I did, Princess,” Arthur says, “Although I had much help.”

“Who is that?” Elianna asks very pointedly as soon as she notices the woman beside Arthur.

Ser Arthur and Daenerys are lingering by the door. Jon had insisted that she stop by and meet his children before Arthur showed her to her rooms. He knew the proper thing would have been to have her presented at court or at the very least arranged a dinner, but Jon wanted Dany to see them as they were.

Elianna’s reaction is the one he’s most worried about. And he sees now he was right to feel that way. While Daeron and Rhaenyra line up like little foot soldiers by the door to meet their new guest, Elianna stays behind Jon.

“This is Daenerys. She fought in the war with me,” Jon says, “Dany, these are my daughters, Elianna and Rhaenyra and my son, Daeron.”

“Pleasure to meet each of you,” Dany says.

“Are those your dragons?” Daeron asks glancing outside where Dany’s beasts are still circling overhead.

Daenerys smiles. “They are.”

Daeron finally breaks his gaze from the window, eyes flickering back and forth between his father and Daenerys. “I like her.”

“I do too,” Rhaenyra says immediately. Jon has to wonder if she actually feels that way or if she has yet to grow out of her hero worship of her elder brother. Either way she smiles brightly at Daenerys in approval before her and her brother return to the window to stare at the dragons.

Elianna on the other hand is doing her very best impression of her mother. She stares at the former khaleesi with narrowed eyes, almost as if she’s a puzzle she can decipher. Finally she turns back to the door where Ser Arthur still stands.

“Do we like her, Ser Arthur?”

Ser Arthur folds his hands behind his back and nods. “She protected your father when I couldn’t.”

Elianna dissects his words carefully before finally meeting Daenerys’ eyes again. “All right then.”

And at that, she turns her back on all of them so she can join her siblings.

“That’s about the best you were going to do with her,” Jon whispers. Daenerys raises an eyebrow, wry smile on her lips. “I’ll take it.”

\---

Daenerys has been at court for two weeks when Lord Merryweather’s wife falls ill and he returns to Longtable to see her. As Master of Laws and the only person on Jon’s court who doesn’t automatically fall in step with either Lord Connington or Lord Varys, Merryweather is often the tiebreaker on the small council, which means Jon cannot afford to have that seat empty. Asking Daenerys to temporarily join the council pleases very few at court, but there’s no one he trusts more to be impartial.

Of course, Jon is the one who regrets it the most when the topic of marriage comes up during her third small council meeting. It’s not the first time marriage has been on the mind of his small council since Cassana died. This is a common conversation Jon is privy to. His wife had only been dead six months when Lord Connington and Varys started planting the seeds for Jon to choose another queen. The Winter War had been a nice distraction from this.

Lord Connington is the champion of Margaery Tyrell, the widow of Viserys. Rumor has it that their marriage was never consummated, but more importantly she has been at court for a few years and has become a favorite of the smallfolk. On the other hand, Lord Varys thinks that Arianne Martell is the better match. Arianne’s family may have also fought against Jon’s claim to the throne, but those fences had mended easier than the ones in the Reach and Arianne had the benefit of not having married Viserys.

Whenever someone speaks of the merits of a bride, their eyes flicker towards Daenerys. Maybe they are waiting for her to chime in or they’re expecting their King to expect the same from her. Either way, Daenerys never says a word, and Jon knows better than to expect her to. She has always been the type of woman who plays her cards close to her chest. The only way Jon was going to know her feelings on the matter would be if he asks her.

He’d like to think he already knows her thoughts on this matter. He’d like to think they are the same as his.

\---

Daenerys won't meet his eyes during dinner. Most days Daenerys dines with Jon’s family. Daeron and Rhaenyra are still enthralled with Daenerys’s dragons and by extension her. Elianna took some warming up, but now she is basically Daenerys’ shadow, following her around the halls of the Red Keep asking a thousand questions about Essos and then reporting back during dinner about all the things she’s learned. Usually when Elianna presents her findings to her father, Daenerys will be sure to catch Jon's eye and give him a knowing smirk or a wink, but today she keeps her eyes glued to the side of Elianna's face.

After his children have been dismissed, Daenerys quickly moves to leave with them, but Jon places his hand on her wrist causing her to abort the movement.

"Join me in my study for a few moments?" he asks, though etiquette means any time he asks something it's a demand, not a request. Daenerys nods, this time standing in less of a rush and waits for Jon to lead the way out of solar and into the study across the hall. Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan walk with them, staying outside the room. If they think it's odd that Daenerys is joining him, they do not show it.

As soon as they enter, Daenerys' eyes seemed to pass over everything, unsure where to look first. Jon hadn't changed much in this room since it had been Rhaegar's. Unlike Daenerys who still wore Dothraki garb most of the time and Jon who gravitated to the greys of the North, Rhaegar fully embraced Targaryen decor. Jon rarely saw him in anything that wasn't red and black. The study is very much the same. There are large red and black curtains adorning the windows. Their house’s sigil is outlined and etched onto the walls and what feels like a thousand books of poetry and dragon lore line the bookshelves lining the room.

Daenerys walks slowly around the room taking it all in, before stopping at the shelving directly behind Jon's desk. At eye level sits Rhaegar's crown. Jon had thought to return it to the basements where they kept all the other past kings' crowns, but there was something comforting about seeing a piece of his father with him throughout the day.

"Did you ever ask him why he chose amethysts and black diamonds?" Daenerys asks, eyes studying the crown.

"I didn’t,” Jon admits, “But I always thought it was an odd choice considering his love of rubies.”

"Mother asked him once,” Daenerys says, her fingers lightly tracing one of the black diamonds there. “He said he chose them for his children. One third of the jewels were amethysts to match Aegon’s eyes, the other two thirds were black diamonds for Rhaenys’ and yours."

Jon finds himself drawing closer to Daenerys’ shoulder so he can have a closer look at the crown. "I never would have thought of that."

"In the end, everything he did was for his kids."

“Aye,” Jon says. He wonders if she is thinking of Rhaego at that moment. He knows she misses him, and he wonders how much longer she can stay. He tries to shake that thought as quickly as he can.

Daenerys has moved on from the crown. She now looks at a pair of tiny gold dragon figurines somewhere to his left. She frowns at them.  As if sensing what she’s thinking, Jon says, "This was my father’s study. That’s why everything is so…"

"Targaryen?” Daenerys provides with a knowing smirk. Normally he would take offense at someone questioning his attachment to his Targaryen heritage, but he knows Daenerys means nothing negative by it. Instead he grins.

Daenerys turns back toward the desk and the center of the room. Her eyes seem to take in everything at once, and it’s not the first time Jon has had to wonder what she’s thinking about.

“I can imagine my brother in here," Daenerys says softly, and when she meets Jon’s eyes the nostalgic smile on her face falters at something she sees there.  "I'm sorry. I know you never liked it when I reminded you that we are family."

"Dany-" Jon means to correct her, to tell her that any grimace or pain she saw in his eyes was because he was thinking of his father’s passing, but Daenerys will not be quieted.

"You don't have to apologize, Jon. If we are completely honest, what have the Targaryen customs done for our family besides dwindle our numbers and increase our chances at madness?"

There are times where Jon thinks he knows Daenerys like he knows the back of his hand and he can say that nothing has changed between them through the years.  And then there are times like now where doubt creeps up between the both of them. Daenerys, at fourteen, never questioned the extent of his love, but time has made her uncertain. She averts her eyes to the ground before them.

Jon does not answer her accusation right away. Instead he comes to stand before her, taking her hands in his and forcing her to look up at him. Uncertainty is a strange look on Daenerys Targaryen.

They have skated around this for far too long, he thinks.

"I'm not blind to the fact that we share blood, but we are not siblings. We were not raised as family. You were nothing more than a name until we met at Lannisport," Jon pauses to bring their joined hands to his face so he can press kiss along her palm. "I fell in love with you not because some outdated custom told me I should but because you are you."

Rhaegar once assumed that Jon’s betrothal to Daenerys was something he agreed to out of duty. He was so convinced that Jon disliked the arrangement that he believed that Jon was the one intending to run off with Cydra. Jon had never blamed him for believing that. When some of the old Targaryen loyalists started suggesting Rhaenys should wed either Aegon or Jon, he was the only one of his siblings to actually voice their disgust at the idea. When Rhaegar had offered Daenerys as a bride, he did so hesitantly and Jon’s acceptance hadn’t been as enthusiastic as it could have been but that was only because he was so overwhelmed at actually getting what he wanted. It wasn’t until Viserys had broken that betrothal that Rhaegar truly saw how much Daenerys mattered to him.

Daenerys seems convinced by his words, but she still bites at her lower lip as though she is filled with nerves. "You should be marrying the Tyrell girl."

"The Tyrell girl is marrying my cousin Bran," Jon says immediately, "And before you ask, I will not marry Arianne Martell either. Everyone knows there is only one person I wish to marry. I only let them entertain the notions of others because I haven’t found the courage to ask her yet."

"You cannot marry me," Daenerys says, voice thick with anguish. "Rhaego's birth was harsh. It is unlikely I could ever conceive again."

Jon feels a pang in his chest at the heartbroken look in Daenerys’ eyes. He brushes his thumb against her cheekbone. "While I’ll admit it’s unfortunate that we could not have children together, I'm not looking for more heirs. I already have three.”

Daenerys manages a weak smile, clearly pleased with the idea of Jon counting his daughters as heirs. It should be no surprise. Jon had fought beside the Queen Beyond the Wall and never flinched at the idea of arming women as well as men during their fight. "What did the world do to earn such a man as yourself for king?"

Jon finds himself smiling, sensing her mood is recovering and with it, her resolve is cracking. "I think the better question is what has Westeros done to deserve you as a queen?"

Daenerys wraps her arms around his neck, playing with one of the curls she finds there. “You will not take no for an answer.”

“That is because you are the only one I want by my side.”

“You haven’t really asked me yet,” Daenerys says softly, the twinkle in her eye is now back in full force. It’s enough to make Jon’s usual timid smile break into a large grin.

“Daenerys Targaryen - Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons – would you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

Daenerys lets out a deep breath and Jon knows that relief all too well. “The answer has always been yes.”

\---

Of course, their wedding doesn’t happen right away. Much worse Jon knows even before Daenerys works up the nerve to tell him that she will want to return to Essos first and see her son. Her departure from Meereen was never intended to be permanent. She owes it to not just Rhaego but the men and women she left in charge of the city to return and settle things.

Jon understands that and yet, when they are standing on the shores of Blackwater Bay, he is hit with an unpleasant nostalgia. He never had the chance to see her off at Dragonstone all those years ago. His party had made the decision to depart for Winterfell that same morning. Their goodbyes had been said in that garden. The scene may be different now, but there is still a familiar chilled breeze gusting through the sand. _This time winter is gone,_  Jon thinks ironically.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Daenerys says. She slips closer to him, pulling his arms around her waist and bracing her own hands again his biceps. There is just enough distance between them that she can look him in the eyes. There is only the two of them on this shore. Even Arthur has stayed far enough behind so that they can say their goodbyes in private.

“It’s hard not to think of.”

“I know,” Daenerys says, squeezing his arms briefly, “but it is only a few months.”

Jon lets out of a huff of a laugh though there is no mirth in it. “And last time we thought it would only be a year.”

Drogon lets out a loud shriek as if he is growing impatient. There is no boat to take her across the sea this time. Daenerys has decided it is quicker if she takes Drogon. The other two dragons will stay in King’s Landing under the care of Jon, although Daeron and Rhaenyra seem to believe otherwise. Jon has already caught them sneaking out to the Dragonpit to feed them slabs of meat they’ve nicked from the kitchen, which is as amusing as it is terrifying for Jon.

“I waited over a decade for you to come back to me,” Jon leans forward to press his forehead against hers. “I think I dreamt of it every night.”

“I dreamt of it too,” she admits and then closes the last bit of distance between them to press her lips against his. It is brief, chaste kiss. When she withdraws, she presses another kiss against the edge of his jaw, whispering in his ear. “I will come back to you again.”

\---

Daenerys is gone three months when Drogo returns. Jon is sitting in the courtyard below his study, listening to Daeron read when the giant black beast swoops overhead, making a beeline for the Dragonpit where his siblings are. He has flown low enough that Jon sees Daenerys is not on his back.

He manages to wait all of three hours before he summons Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn and rides out of the city and to the shores of Blackwater Bay. They wait another hour or so before the boat Jon is looking for crosses the horizon.

Daenerys is not alone on her return. She first introduces Tyrion Lannister, whom Jon already knows, as well as Ser Jorah, who Jon notes bears a striking resemblance to his father – Jeor.  There are two Dothraki men whom Daenerys announces next though Jon can barely recall their names. Jon does not know much about Dothraki culture – only what Dany has told him – but if he had to guess, these are probably Rhaego’s bloodriders. Rhaego is the last person Daenerys presents and she does so with the barest tremor in her voice.

Rhaego, at first glance, would never be mistaken for a Targarayen. His skin is bronze and his hair is as dark as night, though it is plaited elegantly behind his back in what almost passes as a Westerosi style. What is Targarayen about him is his eyes. They are a fierce shade of purple – the same hue as Daeron and Rhaenyra – but stronger than theirs, possibly as strong as Jon’s father had been. And when he studies Jon as he approaches, Jon can see Dany's grace in the twinkle of his eye.

“Very nice to meet you, Khal Rhaego,” Jon says, extending his hand. Rhaego accepts the handshake with a firm grip. Rhaego is only thirteen, but he seems twice that age as he stands before a king and does not blink. Jon no longer doubts why this boy became a khal so young – how he managed, by his mother’s own account, to take down some of the greatest riders the Dothraki had ever seen at as young as ten and eleven.

“King Jon,” Rhaego returns, and Jon immediately notices that his voice is only slightly accented, “Only the best of men could take my mother away from her duties in Meereen.”

There seems to be a question in his voice and Jon does not know how he is meant to answer it. “I can only hope to prove worthy of her.”

Rhaego stares at him, head tilted as if he’s trying to parse that through and then he turns to his mother, intimidation melting away when he smiles at her. “I approve.”

He then beckons his men forward and joins Jorah, Tyrion and kingsguard who have already headed up the shore to give the betrothed couple a moment alone. Jon waits until he is a ways off before letting out a deep breath and turning to Daenerys.

“He’s not even half my age and still terrifying.”

“Good.” Daenerys beams with pride. She slips her hand into his and they begin their trek back.

“Welcome home,” Jon says softly.

“It was only three months and yet it felt far too long,” Daenerys admits, “I’m not sure how I ever managed to go so long without you.”

Jon feels relieved that he was not the only one tied up in knots at being apart. He squeezes Dany’s hand. “Let’s hope we never have to know that feeling again.”

\---

Their wedding is the grand event he once promised her. There is a small ceremony early in the morning in front of the godswood, followed by a full scale wedding with all of King’s Landing watching in and outside of the Great Sept. There is a great feast afterwards, where all the lords and ladies of the great houses are in attendance. The hall is filled with music and food from all over Westeros. Jon has never been much of a dancer, but Daenerys is. She keeps him on his feet for most of the night, smiling and laughing their way through each song. At the end of the night, they slip away together before anyone can call for the bedding.

As much as he enjoys the wedding, the intimate affair that greets them the morning after is much more Jon’s speed. Jon and Daenerys arrive for breakfast in one the courtyards and find his family already gathered there. Daenerys takes a seat beside Tyrion who is taking time to catch up with Lyanna. Next to Lyanna, Jaime holds his grandson while Joanna and Griffin take turns trying to feed him. He is as stubborn as both his parents (and grandparents). Further down the table Daeron and Rhaenyra are trying their best to convince Ser Arthur of something (Jon is positive it has to do with the dragons), and Elianna is asking an enthralled Rhaego a million questions about Essos, probably the same ones she’s already asked Daenerys. As she likes to tell Jon, it’s important to have as many answers to a question as you can if you want to suss out the truth. At the very head of the table, Elia sits, watching them all.

Daenerys notices Jon has yet to sit and looks up at him with a puzzled frown. “What is it, Jon?” 

“Nothing,” Jon shakes his head and smiles at her. He leaves his wife so that he can move to the other head of the table and take a seat next to Elia. She gives him a wide smile and pats his hand like she always does.

“This all came together quite nicely,” she says. Jon doesn’t know if she speaks of the wedding or this impromptu family gathering. Either way, she is right. He never imagined as a child he would see his mother and Elia under the same roof or break bread with his Lannister half-siblings. When Cassana died, he never thought he’d see his children smile again as they do now. And for the longest time, he would never have hoped that Daenerys Targaryen would be sitting across the room from him with a light in her eyes that was only for him.

They sit in companionable silence for a few moments watching the conversation unfold around them, before Jon finally breaks it.

“I never said thank you.”

Elia’s eyebrows raise as she tries to figure out his meaning. “For what?”

There are many things that Jon wishes to thank her for. She raised him as her own when most women would have sent him from the house. She stood by him when her family started a war against him in her name. She took care of his children after Cassana died and he was constantly traveling. Above all, she had loved him when he didn’t always know how to accept it or trust it as real.

“For staying,” he says, and he hopes it sums up all those things at once.

Elia smiles, a soft, small smile that she always gave him as a child and he did something to make her proud. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

There’s a saying in Dorne – it takes a village to raise a child. Elia used it often when she spoke of Jon’s upbringing, and Jon always felt that it was meant to set him apart from his siblings. Now he knows that it was a source of pride. Jon is fire and blood and winter - unbent and unbowed with dawn as his shield. He is kin to lions and stags and wolves and dragons and griffins.

For the first time, Jon feels whole.


End file.
